


Dust and Shadows

by Talan (soracia)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Fantasy, Fluff, Gen, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-28
Updated: 2003-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soracia/pseuds/Talan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Why did he keep coming back here? What was the point? There was nothing here anymore except dust and shadows.</i>  A weary wanderer returns, searching for a bittersweet measure of peace despite the grief that haunts him. Written for the July Original Writing Challenge at MystCommunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust and Shadows

"Arren! You're back!" The young woman standing at his front door turned around in surprise to see him there at the foot of the front steps.

He saw her face as she turned and, as usual, the recognition hit him like a punch in the gut. Malyn's sister...what was she doing here? "Taryn?" he managed. He stood there frozen in the late afternoon sun, wishing he had waited until nightfall. "You are the last person I want to see," he said harshly.

Her warm smile died, and she looked away uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't know you were coming."

"I should have to call ahead to make sure I can get into my own house without being waylaid?" he said sarcastically, glaring at her. He was being rude and unfair, but he didn't care very much. It had been a long time--almost five years--since he had cared much about anything at all.

"I come here often, Arren," she said simply, meeting his eyes again. "A house can't just stand empty forever and keep itself up. So I take care of it a little. It feels like...I can still do something for her."

This time his eyes slid away, falling on the dusty floorboards of the porch. "I am sure she appreciates it," he said icily, his voice so dry and bitter that the girl before him flinched.

"I think she does," she answered quietly, sounding stubborn.

"Get out of here," he gritted through his teeth. He wanted to throw something, anything, and hear it crash as it shattered.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again as she passed him and hurried away. A twinge of regret flickered briefly--he knew it wasn't her fault. She didn't deserve to be the target of all the pain and anger he'd built up since the last time he'd come home. For home it still was, in spite of everything.

He finally moved again, up the steps and into the house, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, exhausted. The house, in spite of Taryn, was dusty, and had the empty, abandoned feeling of a place that has not been lived in. He closed his eyes, hearing echoes of the past.

 _It's perfect, don't you think, Arren?_ Her eyes, so like Taryn's, had sparkled up at him. _I think it's beautiful. It has so much history._ Perfect was not the word he would use, but Malyn had loved this old house, his inheritance when his father died. He had wanted to sell it, let someone else deal with fixing it up, but Malyn had insisted it would be a wonderful place to start a life together, and he had given in without much of a fight. It was worth it to him to watch her light up as she made her plans.

He winced now and straightened abruptly, striding into the next room and throwing his bag on a chair. Why did he keep coming back here? What was the point? There was nothing here anymore except dust and shadows. He stood in the middle of the room, looking around, more memories flashing at him everywhere he looked. Malyn's face, her smile, her clear bright laughter.

The grief he'd been holding back for so long rose up again, threatening to choke him. A strong wind was blowing up a storm outside, and it's mournful howling as it rattled the windows of the old house was not improving his mood. He hoped, rather cynically, that it wouldn't rain. He didn't think he'd make through this night if it rained. It probably would. He walked restlessly through the mostly empty rooms of the house, remembering. It seemed haunted, the ghosts of memory half-real, as if he saw them with more than just his mind's eye.

He wandered into the hall and contemplated the stairs, but it would take more energy than he had at the moment. Finally he walked back into the main room and sank back into the overstuffed sofa, leaning back with his eyes shut. He sat there in the dark for a long time, until the silence and darkness brought him a measure of peace. This place was so full of her presence, as if he might see her, touch her when he opened his eyes. He held his breath and let the quietness soak into him, the sense of her spirit bringing a bittersweet comfort to his soul.

The noise at the front door only gradually registered on his senses, and it took him a minute to realize that someone was coming in. He remembered vaguely that one person had a key, but before he had roused himself enough to move or react he was startled by a voice speaking right next to him. "How typical. Sitting in the dark, not even a fire, and it's pouring rain outside!"

He jumped, opening one eye to scowl at the owner of the voice. "Aren't you going to ask if I mind before you come in?" he said irritably.

"No," his best friend said cheerfully. "I already know you mind, and if I asked then you would tell me to go away. Since I have no intention of leaving, it makes things simpler if I don't ask."

"Go away," he growled.

Jaret ignored this advice. "You weren't very nice to my wife."

Arren snorted a laugh at this understatement. "Jar, when have I ever been nice?" he asked reasonably.

Jaret smiled briefly, conceding the point. "Why did you come back?"

"I came to see her. That's all."

Jaret was silent, knowing he meant Malyn. "Why? Why do you keep doing this to yourself? You don't come to see us, but all you find here is painful memories. Why do you even come?"

"I've been asking myself that," he said without opening his eyes, "all evening." He said nothing more for several minutes.

Jaret hesitated, wondering how hard he should push him. "And...have you found any answers?"

Arren thought about that. He took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. "It still feels like home," he said, half to himself. Jaret waited, unsure if that was an answer or just an observation. "It feels like she's still here," he continued finally. "I come back--so I don't forget. What it feels like. "And...so I don't forget her face," he admitted. He smiled, the sad, wistful image of one who has looked in the mirror and seen only the reflection of something he cannot touch.

"Taryn?" his friend asked.

Arren nodded restlessly. "I never want to see her--it hurts too much. Every time I come here, I say never again, better to just forget--but it terrifies me that I might forget, and I always come back. I tell myself I'm only going to the house, that it's enough just to sit here and remember. But in the end I always look for her. It helps if I've been here first and..." _And I've talked to Malyn,_ but that sounded strange. He sighed. "She surprised me today. Tell her--I'm sorry."

"She knows. But I will, or you can tell her yourself. How long are you staying?"

Arren heaved himself up out of the sofa. "I'm not." He smiled, his expression oddly one of peace, almost of hope. "I got what I came for."

"And that is...?"

Arren looked at him thoughtfully. "A reminder...of my reason for living. Living even when the grief drags me down, turns my world dark and grey and I just want to die. The reason why I get up each day and keep breathing. Because if Malyn were beside me, she would look at this same world and her eyes would shine, and she'd say, "Look, isn't it wonderful?"

He picked up the bag he had discarded on the chair and headed for the door. "Don't worry, I'll come back. I always do. Somehow, this is still home."

Jaret shook his head. "We'll be here, then. Safe journey, friend."

Arren threw a smile over his shoulder. "Always." He stood in the doorway, feeling his heart lift for the first time in years. The storm had blown over and the air smelled fresh and clean under a half moon. He thought he could hear a faint voice on the soft night wind as he started down the steps.

 _Look, isn't it wonderful?_

**Author's Note:**

> May eventually be continued as a longer novella.


End file.
